Deductions in the Darkness
by Nyte Quill
Summary: A strange newcomer to our planet runs into the smartest human alive, or what would happen if John Harrison ran into Sherlock Holmes? Crossover w/ Star Trek Into Darkness; popped in b.c they're both played by the same actor.
1. Introductions

The city was dark, and there was an air of subdued anticipation in the chill stillness, that prickle of expectation that something was about to happen. The explosion of light, like that of a distant firework, was accompanied by a soft whistling sound as something entered the atmosphere, ending in a muted thud as they left a minor crater in the midst of a concrete parking lot. All of this went largely unnoticed by the mostly recumbent residents of the never quiet but occasionally still city. Only the slightest of tremors was felt, and then from the settling dust emerged a man. To look once at him you would see nothing immediately remarkable: a tall whip thin frame swathed in black, a long sweeping coat that fluttered like a dragon's wings or a magician's cloak as he stalked down the silent street, boots silent on the pavement, an angular face of pale skin bearing dark eyes that darted about soaking up everything, a sharp nose with quivering nostrils, a mouth that would have been full and inviting if not set in a harsh line of grim determination. Topping this slightly unusual physiognomy was close cropped black hair, swept back from his forehead and slightly greased in place; not perfect, not styled, merely controlled. To take the time to look twice would begin to unsettle you as all those little details one misses at first glance come into focus. Like the rather odd and otherworldly look those noiseless boots have, and that they are well worn, not a fresh buy for a costume. However flamboyant his clothes, that is what they are; this is not dressing up, nor a man playing a character, although he does seem to be acting a role. Or the way a hank of hair has fallen forward towards his eyes like a forelock, despite the hardness in his gaze that telegraphs he is subservient to no one. And the unsettling prickles that run up between the shoulder blades as you realize his manner of walking, stalking, moving silently and attempting to blend in (yet still sticking out in some indefinable way) is like a predator, a hunter, a seeker of answers and quarry. His constantly cast-about gaze seems to be absorbing information, the flared nostrils are breathing in answers, and he seems unnatural to this place, as though he's never been to this city, this country… this world.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes had just emerged from 221b Baker Street to do a disgustingly normal thing: he was taking a walk to get some air to clear his head. Such a bizarre and pedestrian notion, that walking around and breathing normally will somehow have a similar effect on stymied mental processes as airing a room after a stuffy shut-in winter. But Mrs. Hudson had put her foot down and kicked Sherlock out of the haven of the apartment to "clear the cobwebs out", likely owing to the numerous loud noises and vile odors emanating at all hours and the 28 new pockmarks he'd added to the wallpaper with a .22 Magnum mini-revolver bought in the name of research, rather than any real concern for his mental health. Pausing to secure his scarf about his neck, Sherlock leaned against the entranceway and ran through several possible destinations, discarding each as it occurred as not interesting enough to shake his ennui. Where did one go alone in London by foot? John might know, and of course would have been a pleasant diversionary addition… and a buffer who would've prevented the need for the asinine suggestion in the first place, but he was on a mini-break with Sarah and not due back til Thanksgiving.

And so it was that at 1119pm, he found himself in a unique and perfect position to spot the unusually attired individual stalking up the street. He knew the moment the creature spotted him too, as its perambulations abruptly halted. Why he immediately concluded this was not a man, even at the present distance, was not yet clear; all earmarks of a fellow Homo Sapien were present (indeed one who was nearly an identical physical match to himself, discounting the tamed and obviously curl-free locks), yet there was a sense also that the earmarks had been selected for just that purpose, expressly to convey normalcy. It was a mask, a front, an almost generic and almost convincing facade… except for the predatory aura that oozed from underneath, leaking at the seams of the well constructed pretense. Sherlock couldn't stop the smile that stretched his cupid bow mouth as he walked closer to the being; at least he wasn't bored anymore.

**Author's Note: This was borne of someone opening their big mouth and asking for a fic about the villain from Star Trek Into Darkness. Then I wondered what would happen if he landed on Earth and ran into the master detective. I couldn't help it; they're the same person! Stay tuned to see what happens... Please R&R and as always, enjoy.**


	2. Conclusions

The creature went on guard as Sherlock approached, speaking in a low rumbling tone reminiscent of a high performance engine. "What do you want?" The sleek black, the deep voice, the silent celerity, and especially the eyes reminded Sherlock of a jaguar, and he remained mindful of engaging only the mental defenses of this predator. They circled each other slowly around a mutually fixed point, rotating cautiously like Old West gunslingers: eye on the opponent, fingers near their weapons… such as they were. A brilliant mind and a mobile phone against a dangerous aura and mysterious bulge near the waistline of the creature's coat; whether they were as well-equipped as they thought remained to be seen.

Turning on his heel to walk backwards for a bit, Sherlock cleared his throat as he raised his hands in an open and hopefully nonthreatening way. "A name seems a suitable place to start, if you'd care to. Tradition in these parts, the 'done thing' as they say." Gesturing to himself with collective fingertips, he introduced himself, then motioned to his guest to do the same. The being mimicked the gesture and stated his name was John. "Well, I'll say this much for you; you definitely score marks on your A-levels, mate. Basic Assimilation Techniques When Dealing with Unusual Lifeforms? Or was it simply How to Pass for Human in 3 Simple Classes?"

John's eyes widened momentarily, as though simultaneously weighing the outcomes of all possible actions. His coat flipped back to reveal the sleek and unquestionable handle and scope of an Alpha Meeson Sonic Blaster; Sherlock halted mid-circuit and hastened to calm him. "Steady on, mate. It is just a bit obvious. There's your accent; clearly learned from studying some media, possibly a television program." On this point, John conceded an affirmative, and declared the BBC one of the few sources of entertaining dialogue and well written drama in the known universe. Sherlock barely suppressed a snort. "Doctor Who and the occasional episode of _EastEnders_, maybe… Let's not go whole hog just yet. Shall I continue?" Other John inclined his head a fraction of an inch.

"You're from the Kanari Region." "How on earth did you know that?" Resisting his typical look of annoyed condescension, Sherlock elucidated. "First off, your coat. Really, clothing does make the man, and most of what I need to know can be learned from it in most instances. Your coat is Mahaxian superfine, a grade of fabric typically reserved for Starfleet members. The stitching bears earmarks of El-Aurian alteration." "They do love to listen to customer prattle," John snarled. "Good as any barkeep in the West End to plumb the secretive depths of a man's soul, I shouldn't wonder. And that double clawback stitching is quite distinctive to Ferasan repair methods; I hear they modify the sewing machine treadles to respond to tail weight. Remarkable really."

John Harrison was not a reticent speaker. Many a civilization's destruction had been heralded by an eloquent and erudite oration, usually expounding his disgust for their futile existences and outlining how they met his criteria for the razing of their homeland and enslavement or mass genocide of a native people. It was sort of his thing. Temporarily borrowing from the argot of the planet, he found himself… gobsmacked by the impressive denizen that stood before him, analyzing his disguise. Such a fascinating creature could not be harmed; likely placed in a suitable mobile habitat and kept under guard to provide entertainment when the stresses of ruling the mudball proved too much, but not harmed… as long as he didn't suddenly attempt something stupid like physical violence… or a peace treaty.

Sherlock recommenced his examination and deductive dissection, John standing silent under the scrutiny, before finally noting 2 things. "The weapons access gallery on your armband really just screams 'I'm here to take over your world.' Do try to be less obvious when plotting global domination and destruction." Other John paused, then nodded in brief concession. "Noted. And the second?" "It might be my recent experience with egomaniacal super geniuses, but honestly learn to blend in a bit better. Anyone who's ever had a weekend pass to Comic Con could spot the communicator under your lapel. Now if you're going to insist on trying, I'll take you down and pass you off to the first Gallifreyan time-jumper I spot… or just hand you over to my brother and he can lose you in some subterranean research facility testing the effects of lasers and massive organ removal on the mortality rate of alien species. Or…" he let the syllable hang in the air between them. "Or?" Other John asked in a guarded tone. "Well I'm off to get some fettuccine. Just the thing on a night like this and there's a place around the corner that makes the best sauce in at least two regions of the galaxy. My flatmate's gone for a few days and I don't fancy another round of verbal sparring with my landlady. It's my treat if you care to join me."

Other John stood silently for a while, weighing each word, considering each syllable separately, before stalking to Sherlock's side and indicating the empty pavement that lay ahead. "Lead on, MacDuff." The two men walked in matched gaits, hands clasped behind their backs in identical postures, coats fluttering like magician's cloaks as they melted into the darkness. The dragons had found a companion for the night and what a night it promised to be.

**A/N: Hope you enjoyed my new piece. Whether you did or didn't, post a review to let me know. They're always appreciated.**


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